Shot
by SchuylerSister16
Summary: August 27th, 1782, John Laurens embarked on an ambush from which he'd never return. And he had so much left on his mind... [One Shot]


Laurens

Even before dawn, it was hotter than the devil's oven in South Carolina, especially when one was marching. Laurens was unsurprised by this, having spent his formative years in that state, but it didn't prevent him from wishing that his uniform was a bit thinner. Everyone's uniforms had dark sweat stains, and every soldier kept mopping their brows.

"Keep your voices down," he hissed to the fifty infantrymen from Delaware he'd been put in charge of. Instantly a hush fell over the men, marred only by the clatter of the howitzer gun being dragged along the dirt road.

The howitzer gun was for shooting the British as they came down the Combahee River. Laurens and his men would be stationed on Chehaw Point, which overlooked said river.

Laurens had a funny feeling in his gut. He kept it to himself, of course, but it still bothered him as they marched down the road. Nerves before a potential fight were normal, but they'd never felt quite so…foreboding.

 _Perhaps Alex is right,_ he thought to himself as they continued their long march. _Maybe I should join him in Congress._ Alexander's most recent letter was tucked securely in his left pocket. He didn't have to read it to remember what it said.

"Quit your sword my friend, put on a _toga_ , come to Congress." Laurens had to admit, he did enjoy political affairs as much as militaristic ones. Both were, in a way, a battle. But he couldn't let the Carolinas fall into British hands. His pride simply would not allow it. From a congressional position, he couldn't truly help his homeland.

However, he did consider his abolitionist cause. No one in the South Carolina legislature wanted to hear what he had to say. He'd spent most of January trying to get them to listen to his plan without success. They were content to keep on pretending that enslaving other humans was forgivable and necessary, something Laurens had never believed in, despite the fact that the bedrock of his family fortune was slave labor. Truth be told, the North wasn't much better, seeing as how they avoided the touchy subject at all costs. A congressional position would force them to listen to him.

Laurens had to suppress a smile when he thought of the rest of the letter. "We have fought side by side to make America free. Let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy." There was no one in America that Laurens would rather build a nation with.

Suddenly there was a rustling amongst the high grass along the road and Laurens signaled his men to stop. Apprehension settled like a stone in his gut, and he could scarcely keep his hands from trembling. The other soldiers seemed to sense it too as a heavy silence fell over the road.

Something was very wrong.

Out of the corner of his eye, Laurens saw something. Something deadly.

A musket barrel was pointed straight at his head.

Just as Laurens registered the sight, gunfire began to rain down from the grasses all around them.

An ambush.

Laurens knew he had only seconds to rally his soldiers, who were already beginning to break formation. "Come on men! Let us fight back!" And throwing caution to the wind, Laurens began to charge forward, bayonet at the ready.

"Lieutenant Colonel! No!" Someone was yelling at him but Laurens paid them no mind. He needed to be an example, a torch to light the way, a knife to cut through the chaos in the way one cuts through butter.

A sharp pain bloomed in his chest and Laurens crumpled to the ground in a heap as time slowed to a mere trickle. The battle raged around him but Laurens paid it no mind.

 _Shot_ , he thought to himself through a haze of pain, _I've been shot._

Alexander always warned him about throwing away his shot.

He felt rather sure that he'd thrown his away in one hasty stroke.

Shot.

Sure enough, he felt something sticky beginning to soak through the front of his uniform: blood. _His_ blood. All he could see was the beautiful South Carolina dawn as the pain grew more intense.

Someone was looming over him. "The Lieutenant Colonel has been shot! Someone help him!" Laurens ignored them, even as a pair of strong hands began to drag him out of the line of fire.

 _I guess I'm not going to rebuild a nation after all_. The thought shook him to his core. Time would march onward without him. America was destined for greatness, and he would not get to see it. He would not get to see the hated British depart for good from the South.

A few tears seeped out of his eyes when he thought of all the slaves. All the slaves he wanted to free. All the slaves he couldn't free. Who would free them if he was dead? Would anyone care? Even as he was dying, Laurens couldn't stop thinking of freedom.

 _We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal,_ he recited to himself, his mind surprisingly clear considering that he'd been shot. Laurens knew the truth: all wealthy, _white_ , men were created equal. That's what Mr. Jefferson had really meant, and the hypocrisy of it all made him heartsick. A nation founded on the principals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness denied those basic needs to people just because of the color of their skin. It was wrong, it was cruel, and most of all, it was shameful.

And what of Alexander? His best friend, no wait, his _brother_. What would become of him? Of Lafayette? Of Hercules? Of his family?

Laurens pondered these things as a soldier loomed over him. "Don't you worry, lieutenant colonel, we'll fix you up!" In spite of his wound, Laurens choked out a laugh that was more of a gurgle due to the blood beginning to well up in his mouth.

Laurens was twenty-seven years old. It pained him to think about all the things that could've been, had that bullet missed its mark. He had so many things left to accomplish. He needed more time.

The sharp pain in his chest grew so intense he was forced to shut his eyes. He felt like taking a nap. He tried to stay awake, tried to hold all the things that were dear to him in his mind. Maybe they could save him.

The poor soldier above him was panicking. "Just hold on!" Please just hold on!" Laurens tried to smile but he found that to do so was excruciating.

 _Alexander_ , he thought, barely able to hold on to anything else. Heat and chill besieged his body. The end was nearly upon him and Laurens wasn't ready. Laurens wasn't ready at all.

 _Please,_ he thought, praying to the Lord as the blood in his mouth began to choke him. _Please just give me more time. Just a few years more. You'll see…what…I can…_

The Lord did not give him more time.

On August 27th, 1782, John Laurens ran out of time.


End file.
